Ah, the grief that grips your land, Nontsizi,

all the things that bring us grief,

recalling our old Mgqwetho kin

wrapped in blankets of skin.

Begone with yesterday's gods,

their ways rip out our hearts,

and so we don't know who we are

and our great men all sit mum.

Today hosts of black people

have long abandoned their customs:

they drove them from their homes

in the heat of the summer sun.

Turn your face to the mountains

and prophesy from them. You too, boy.

You too, son of the vast plains of Africa,

Kindling they fear to gather.

Africa, wail in a mountain cave,

proclaim our condition and rouse the nation.

Even a fox nurses its whelps:

what of yours? In a queue? While you watch?

Jehovah, recall what's befallen us.

Weep on your feet, wayward Africa:

persecution hovers above your head,

you're shattered, wingless buzzard.

You cast aside kingship, polygyny too,

ochre and custom in every village.

What must we make of modern marriage?

Wed then split: where do we get this?

We sit on the fence, won't take a stand,

the walking dead unfamiliar to God.

It may well be true that the Xhosa like joking,

but I have no intention of joking with you.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

Is it possible that you've snubbed us,

Great Place that sees to the weaning of children?

Today we stand idly by

as brother marries sister:

what's become of the ties of blood?

We share descent with all black nations.

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Remember our countrry.

With all your knowledge, did you stray off and vanish,

with all your accomplishments, just disappear?

Act like a man! Bellow your cry!

After you've fallen get to your knees

and return to the days you wail for

when you'll hear Ntsikana's words

in the end!

Let us give thanks to the battle hero

who vanquished and humbled all foes,

crushed to death the ancient snake

to wipe us clean of sin.

You came for love of your people,

washed in water and the word of might,

a king of peace who carried peace,

bringing bliss to the hard of heart.

Reed that was crushed on the cross

for Adam's sins and his family's,

may we clasp hands in education

through your bones that rest in death.

Today, in the Book we read of you,

like a baby sheep led to slaughter,

not a word did you speak as you went,

like a lamb set for shearing.

Crush Satan, the ancient serpent,

let him die in his tracks, let hell grieve.

We make our appeal to You

for the hundreds of thousands killed in Africa.

Peace!

Elephant striving for Africa,

for a long time we've lived on bones and mud;

you were sent as an angel from heaven

but here we stand in battle array.

Crush Satan, the ancient serpent,

let your blood light our way,

through your bones that rest in death

show us the path to peace on earth.

Crush this land's vile habits,

embolden the youth of our nation,

Broadbreast, Foundation of Gabriel's house,

Maker of stars and the years.

Crush Satan, the ancient snake,

let him die in his tracks, let hell grieve,

lead us up the mountain slopes

like flocks led through frost.

Shoulders that bore the tree of shame,

help us to bear our children's shame;

Elephant that left after striving for Jericho,

unite these nations in repentance.

Dress our kings’ subjects in wedding finery,

specially our hearts and habits,

so we rise with you as our guard

against smugness and barbs from the whites.

Let the waters of Africa bellow,

roaring here till they burst their banks,

raising even the sots in the Orange

so they see your presence, Emmanuel.

Peace indeed!!

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

Did you forsake us forever,

Elephant grazing the plains of Canaan?

I'll roar my basic position

like thunder over Umtata.

I'll even take a Khoi to wife,

useless as long-left ruins.

For long we've been calling, our voices are hoarse,

there, Africa's petticoat's dropped.

Africa, have you been trashed

like a plate of little worth?

“You've been weighed and found to be wanting.”

The Ancient Creator's voice struck home.

The fingers’ inscription proclaims

your country's been taken, handed to others.

But today, I want you to understand,

ask yourself if I'm telling the truth:

seek the source of your condition,

why you're so and why you starve.

Africa, have you been trashed

like a plate of little worth?

When we reached the white man's cities

we drank the brews of foreign gods.

Africa, have you been trashed

like a plate of little worth?

Our customs went off to the whites

while we admired foreign gods.

Birds devour you, Garden of Africa.

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth.

Our voices are hoarse from imploring you.

We criss-crossed the land calling to you.

Peace!

I'll roar returning to where I began,

I came when they said I'd come,

babes at the breast even swear by me,

kings prance and stamp in the yards.

Peace!

Africa, have you been trashed

like a plate of little worth?

Your family's left you; your stock have left you:

they're now the stock of the Mutton Gluttons.

Today you're ploughed by fiery wagons;

we don't plough, we bellow “Wailings”.

There the Chinese have brought their malt.

Mercy, hills of a land of springs!

Peace!

While your people die, strangers cart off your country.

Wake up! Death was put to sleep, you said!

There the Indians have brought their bananas,

and the kids of Manana still play with dolls.

Peace, plains of our motherland!

Induce birth pangs in your people.

Scale the mountain slopes like flocks

heading for snow-capped heights.

Peace indeed!

Induce birth pangs in your people,

as in Ngubengcuka's time;

speak as of old in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

Shu! The death of a nation's painful!

Why seek the why and the wherefore?

We're just a dispossessed rabble,

fit to be stripped for thrashing.

Mercy, Africa, you're dead to the pleas

of the ravaged flock of your people,

who can no longer face each other.

I travelled the land without papers.

Die-As-One, join in the chorus!

Ruler of people seeping away,

your people are crushed by their burdens,

Nursemaid slain by its sucklings. Mercy!

Cattle confined to disputed strips—

they stand accused of envy—

crawl on your knees like a slow-spreading town

lest strangers guzzle your heritage.

Compatriot, let's cast out envy,

our constant companion as Christians:

envy puts paid to a nation,

spread by disruptive gossip.

Envy sets us squabbling,

for a long time now I've been telling you.

King Solomon also says so:

envy outweighs a rock.

What a shame to harbour envy!

You people at odds with each other,

in times of trouble your own are your own:

die together, as at Golgotha.

There the Lamb had to linger in pain,

proclaiming the news of heaven

so that, through his mercy, you wear a crown

in the wastelands of this land.

Spread mercy through the church,

see that it's robed in radiance.

How do we differ from Pilate

who disowned the One he knew?

Perhaps your prayers move mountains,

without mercy you're simply nothing;

perhaps you're on good terms with knowledge,

it could still prove to be your downfall.

Vultures feasting up in the hills,

have mercy on those in the mines,

don't stand aloof like an unfelled ironwood:

hyenas ravage your people.

Hear someone speaking:—

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column

I'm still here, a young man and no poet.

I just like to be on top, Editor:

clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

From the stream came the song of the maidens,

from the outposts and empty villages

of the lands of the Sotho and Hlubi:

come out, Scriptures, and explain it to us.

The truth is there in the scriptures

and also within our blankets.

Without this love we're nothing,

there's no faith, nothing of worth.

Look now, I want you to understand,

please ask yourself if I'm telling the truth.

What has power greater than love?

It banishes pride and brings understanding.

I was amazed and astonished,

that we would perish without it.

And Jesus rules heaven by love,

through him earth and heaven are joined.

What has power greater than love,

full of compassion, free of spite?

It thatches a hut with less than ten bundles:

it's borrowed nothing from whites.

We soiled the word of God,

mixed our faith with pride.

We Reds prevailed against you,

consumed as you are by envy.

Without this love we're nothing,

our faith's worth nothing at all.

Mercy, Faith, witches’ cave,

source of sweet and bitter waters.

Faith is gaunt, lean as a rake,

it comes in chameleon colours;

without love it is nothing at all,

it burns as on the day of judgement.

Even prophecies will end,

even speeches will stop,

without love all things will cease,

I swear by Ndlambe; you'll be amazed.

Celebration began before fighting ceased

but there's bullying right in the churches.

We heard the roar of the word of God,

brought by mocking sorcerers.

Where are the leaders the likes of Joshua

who had love, and rose from a fall,

whose prayer stopped the sun in its tracks

so it shone fullface on the mountains.

Mercy, Africa, Nursemaid slain by your sucklings!

The way you speak defines you.

We perish for lack of diviners

as if every home housed a witch.

We entered the house of foreign custom;

turned on our kings and went to the whites,

scattered our stock to the winds,

emptied our bins. Nothing's left.

We called our doctors heathens,

making a heathen of God

who created all these things

and convinced Saul of that fact.

We're borne off by this schooling we valued,

we're borne off in ladles of white people's liquor,

though the whites turn their backs on yours.

Fault these points, Greybeard of ours.

We called our doctors heathens,

while our every village slides down the cliffs.

All our liars are in school,

all our witches are in school.

We gave up polygamy; today we take lovers.

We gave up ochre, but now we're all drunk.

It's all the fault of this learning we praise;

we slip downstream empty-handed.

Will the Reds ever be Christian?

We pose as just, so they waver.

Though lively we Christians will die:

we're Christians by day and hyenas by night.

And what then of our parents?

We just left them shut in their homes.

It's all the fault of this learning we praise

and this culture you ram down our throats.

We must come back! Schooling kicked us,

lugged us on its back like a tortoise.

All our thieves are in school—

and yet we say we're students?

The word of God's the very truth

but we've treated it inconsistently.

We lack the truth, we lack tradition.

“Track your traditions,” say diviners.

Agreed!!

“Hawulele!” says the sleeper

suddenly wakened.

“Hawulele!” says this marsh bird

of South Africa.

We perch like birds on twigs:

why are the houses of Africans burning?

Even a polecat growls in its lair

but a black has nowhere to stay.

Mercy, Africa, Drakensberg snow,

bell tolling dawn's approach!

Where's our home? We're puffed from running.

Awu, God didn't torch this land!

Dip from the jug, black without soap.

We perch like birds on twigs!

This culture's wrenched our homes away,

strapped us with the millstone of custom.

Scratch the earth like crows,

your blessings tossed you on the dump:

nationhood, livestock cast you aside,

like a locust left by the swarm.

Dance in courtship at Khayakhulu:

our girls no longer dance with bare breasts,

today they cut their fancy capers.

Strange gods are stealing your cattle!

We'll dance in courtship at Khayakhulu,

pour thick amasi from calabash lips.

Zibi, you don't need ten bundles of thatch:

you can do your zinc roof with five.

Mercy, Africa, tumbling leaf,

cow lowing behind a mountain,

while your people die, strangers cart off your country:

let your grown-up calf bellow in protest.

Where are you, Africa, Drakensberg snow,

black tortoise they thrashed but couldn't kill?

We cry out to you: we cling to a cliff.

Induce birth pangs in your people.

The water we drink we have to buy,

even our firewood comes at a price.

Divine the cause from those on high,

those long dead and the recent dead.

Come back to restore tradition,

lest your family fall to plagues;

replenish the days of yesteryear,

close one eye in sleep, keep watch with the other.

Unity's our only strength,

a nation of nobles nurtured by nobles.

How long must we hack away at this,

like novice diviners in groves of mimosa?

I've spoken, nails black from scratching the earth.

Please hear!

Listen! You'll hear

of the split within Congress,

graver than any

Rev. Maxeke, B.A. might have caused.

Hawulele! Hule!

Nontsizi foresaw it.

Tramps’ ancestors

are no match for mine.

Tired of snipping,

we came out of our holes:

you might as well lie

as snip at an issue.

Maxeke's split?

Neighbour, you're blind

to internal dissension

in National Congress.

Today we're a team:

you've done a good job,

exposing the filth

before I could reach you.

Stoke up the fire,

President Makgatho!

Watch the sparks

swirl up today.

Hule! Bo!

The ancient of days

says the nation is stunned:

National Congress is chomped

like corn on the cob.

Our people are spent,

urged over the edge.

I'd carve the meat

for a guide to a ford.

Halala! As we said:

National Congress,

envious watchers

would grind you to dust.

Please consider

your internal split:

your bloated body

comes as a shock.

Cape Native Congress

and Bantu Union!

The ford's struck by lightning:

our future's cloudy!

Which one of the two

appeals to the people,

raises their hopes

of Africa's return?

Maxeke, B.A.,

says Africa's scuppered

when Cape Town and Jeppe

urge us over the edge.

The ancient of days

calls out at the ford:

he'll stand toe to toe

with both liars today.

Without leave from Congress

they urge us over the edge,

they preach their sermons

and grab the headlines.

And as a result

Natal Congress walked out,

and the Free State walked out,

and the Cape's splinters splinter.

Maxeke, B.A., speaks out.

Long he stood downwind

watching their antics,

and in the end he turned his back.

We're urged over the edge,

says Maxeke, B.A.,

by those who run blind,

with no home to turn to.

Maxeke, they claim,

is selling the nation;

but they sold it off

a long time ago.

They scuttle Africa:

down there the big guns

of Congress are roaring,

pounding away at their very own ranks.

Thus Maxeke, B.A.,

ancient teller of tales.

He forces down today

those urging us over the edge.

What now, Death, great python?

The One on High laid you low today;

Submit to him. He has risen;

dead, he rolled back the stone.

Death, where then's your sting?

Grave, where then's your triumph?

Doubtless, you've been humbled:

Christ came at you like waves.

So the arrows of death have been shamed.

Praise him, Earth, you've been gladdened:

to redeem you from God in heaven

Christ endured scorn from his foes.

Wake, cascade of praise in Africa,

incite Tanganyika wastelands,

spread the news of the Templars,

call out lest we forget.

Who are these soldiers in battle array,

with swords at the ready watching that grave?

It's Gabriel, chief of the blessed,

come with his brigade.

The world took fright when he came,

the graveposts burst asunder,

the stone was rolled back and laid down there

and the Jews were thrashed and scorched.

What now, Death, great python?

The One on High laid you low today;

this Christ who shattered the tree of the cross,

crushed its head, made it a trophy.

Wake, cascade of praise in Africa,

leave the seasoned debater to sleep,

wake quickly, ready the lamp:

lightning's opened this grave.

This Christ has risen and Mary with him.

In the far Kalahari I heard the news.

He called to those who took to the hills

to tell them the tale of these sources of mercy.

We took our sticks and joined the crowd

in search of this long-renowned Christ.

He's completely restored your liberty:

honour this hero in song.

Who are these soldiers in battle array,

with swords at the ready watching that grave?

He also has at his bidding

armies of messengers, and of the blessed.

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column.

I'm still here, a young man and no poet.

I just like to be on top, Editor.

Oi! Clubs are at hand but I fight with lightning.

This nation rests on the law of the bible,

traitors must forfeit their lives.

Turncoats wound it, rip out its lifeblood:

our power wanes, and we're ripe for invasion.

Did we invite this nation of theirs?

Did we invite their mighty money?

When we entered the white man's cities

we drank the brews of foreign gods.

Did we invite this nation of theirs?

Maker, Ntsikana didn't ask you

about the hundreds of thousands killed in Africa:

we appeal to you for them.

Induce birth pangs in your people,

as in Ngubengcuka's time;

speak as of old in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

Will all the years roll by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

Your family's left you; your stock have left you:

they're now the stock of the Mutton Gluttons.

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

In the light of day you sold your kingdom

and went in search of a wife.

Will all the years roll by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

Where is royalty? There's nothing of value:

all that we once had is gone.

The old voice said, “You're dying, Africa.”

The gainsayers countered: “How can she die?”

Now what can you say? “The country's at war.

Punishment's rampant. Africa's fallen.”

Ngqika himself broke away,

Christians, because of your bible.

I witnessed the fall of our kings, our foundations,

heard them groan as they shook their heads.

Will all the years roll by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

Please seek the source of your condition,

why you're so and why you starve.

Seek the seers to tell you straight

what the ancient of days divines.

Fear nothing, armed with the truth:

this cash led us astray.

Will all the years roll by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

Drought struck; the rivers dried up.

What do they say in the far northeast?

The old voice said, “You're dying, Africa.”

The gainsayers countered: “How can she die?”

Flames rise among cattle and people

and the word of God's caught in the coils.

Peace, Africa, mimosa of Africa,

tree that twisted in falling,

whatever your doubts, please come back today,

those glittering baubles aren't for you.

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

Come back this year, African moss.

That rising sun made me think of Shaka.

Peace! Awu!!

Bring to mind the days of our fathers:

before the word came they wore grass skirts,

but you tended them on the slopes

like flocks on Mount Gilead.

We perish for lack of diviners

to ask about Africa's tracks,

so we took our sticks and set out

to find our far-famed home.

Long ago the whites brought the word;

we're confused that it bends with the wind:

over there it's with God, over here it flogs us.

I'm quite confused: I'd better scram.

There are tears today in African homes,

we're swept off bound in the stream of despair.

Christians, because of this schooling of ours

we're Christians by day, but hyenas by night.

Long ago God's word arrived

but recent events confuse us.

Return to your roots, black man of Africa:

we're swept away in the stream of despair.

It didn't seem much, but we're drowning;

we say we'll escape and regroup.

We pinned our hopes on a miracle:

some died with nothing to show for it.

We perish for lack of diviners

as if every home housed a witch.

We make a big thing of this schooling:

we're swept away in a stream—nothing's left.

All this applies to us, my people:

we poured out our homestead and left it.

Our treasures are gone and we bear the blame:

we shunned our home for a flash in the pan.

Strangers to us, the shades depart

and we sink in the stream of despair;

we're not drowned yet, we bob up and down:

perhaps the shades will take up our case.

We're swept off in bowls of white people's liquor,

we're swept off by this schooling we valued:

today our voice, drowned in a whirlwind,

calls faintly from the skies.

Ntsikana brought the word long ago.

I lost the thread: who doesn't know?

We shunned our customs, blaming Africa,

and turned into long-tailed birds.

Peace!!

Isaiah it was who told us

to spurn strange gods on pain of death.

We toyed with God while whites looked on:

today our country's affliction itself.

Ah, the sorrow that siezes your land, Nontsizi,

all the things that bring us grief,

recalling our old Mgqwetho kin

wrapped in blankets of skin.

Begone with all their gods,

their ways rip out our hearts,

and so we don't know who we are,

and our great men all sit mum.

Oh the homestead standing alone

with easy access through its gates,

whose people once had plenty,

now a sign of oppression.

Something's rotten on African paths:

the next generation will gaze slack-jawed,

passers-by will shake their heads

at this home without hospitality.

Its enemies plundered the pots,

the knives and sacred vessels,

all the gourds and little trowels

passed down through generations.

They clapped shackles on you, Africa,

hurled you down with bible and musket.

There's something rotten in Africa now.

That rising sun made me think of Shaka.

Find support in the Scriptures.

Ethiopia should get involved.

We met Isaiah on the way home.

Christians, where are your bibles today?

Now their fiery breath

scorches those who received them.

What does the prophet Isaiah say?

When you've done with trampling, you'll be trampled.

Why can't you see what I've seen for so long?

Didn't Ntsikana tell you?

Our homes and our kingdoms all plundered,

Reds and Christians need passes to travel.

May the dumb arise in Africa!

The dumb arose in Decapolis,

the eyes of the blind were opened in Jericho:

may our blind regain their sight today.

The shooting star informed us:

spurn strange gods on pain of death.

The trumpet sounded, calling us.

There, Africa's petticoat's dropped.

Jehovah opened his arms to us,

Jehovah called us with all His might.

Peace, Voracious, browsing the tops,

yours is the day, Thunderarmed.

Peace indeed!!

Genesis makes this clear to you

so you can see with your eyes,

flee with your feet,

receive all with open arms.

Halahoyi, Africans, something stinks

like the ground snake, fouling the air.

The truth is there in the scriptures

and also within our blankets.

Will all the years roll by?

Will you mark time through this year too?

If only you people shared the news

of what you see of life in this land.

May our leaders see eye to eye,

stop putting each other down.

Day after day you ask for donations.

To what end? We're still amazed.

Genesis says so as fog descends:

where's this star brought by the whites

that said there was treasure in heaven

when the manna was here on earth?

Think about it!

I confirm the truth, concealing nothing,

so we wield the shield of truth:

those bibles they used to rein us in

stand as tall as I do down on my knees.

Mercy, Africa, Garden of Africa!

I saw a baboon with dirty teeth.

Even a jackal suckles its whelps:

do you see him standing in line?

Wailings! So then, my people,

take heart! Remember our country,

speak as of old in Hintsa's voice.

(The names of kings confuse me.)

Genesis says: “These are my words;

tell your people I'm the one talking.”

You perish for lack of diviners

as if every home housed a witch.

Our fathers bore the yoke together,

together they snapped the traces,

in the forest they slew a lion,

dealt with the preying wolf.

Bring back to mind the days of our fathers:

they used grass skirts when they couldn't go out,

but you herded them like David

on the mountain slopes of Gilead.

This hill the black man scales is steep,

it nearly daunted Christian;

his mouth frothed with a sloven's foam,

his ears flared like a cobra.

Editor, thanks for the poets’ column,

I'm still here, a young man and no poet,

I carry the milkpail to arm-ringed celebrities

and I have not one bead of an arm-ring.

When will we gain ourselves glory?

What animal won't choose kindness?

Our fathers bore the yoke together,

together they snapped the traces.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

Did you forsake us forever

in your anger against us?

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers,

Beater of Sandile's drum,

Langalibalele's black cow.

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

In the light of day you sold your kingdom

and went in search of a wife.

When will we gain ourselves glory,

become a nation rooted in glory?

Please, my people, don't die to life,

at a loss while the nation still lives.

Your kings and their people without distinction

must gain glory for themselves.

Glory says “Sing in chorus

and die side by side with your own.”

This nation rests on the law of the bible,

traitors must forfeit their lives.

They rip out its glory, kill the nation:

our power wanes, and we're ripe for invasion.

Such a nation cannot stand,

with all its glory gone.

We sit on the fence, won't take a stand,

the walking dead sinking deeper.

Maqoma said so, and they called him mad

for spurning the madness of surrender.

We scattered our own to help other nations,

wanting them to take care of us.

The old voice said, “You're dying, Africa.”

The gainsayers countered: “How can she die?”

Now what can you say? “The country's at war.

Bereft of glory Africa's fallen.”

Locusts flourish among our youngsters,

gangsters flourish in our land.

Jehovah, replenish our days on earth,

as you did in the time of our fathers.

We offer sacrifice!

The past year fades.

I'm speaking to you, fine African.

Ha-la-la 1923,

what pen can tell your tale?

The year's passed and left us,

there are the signs of its absence;

there's joy in welcoming

the new.

The year's passed with news

of all people on earth,

their conduct, their cruelties,

recorded.

News of hardship and happiness,

of good luck and ill,

of sickness and health,

borne off.

The old year bears its burden,

tales of hardship on earth,

turmoil that's shaken

the nation.

Deceit, double-dealing,

murder, oppression,

testimony for your judge

presiding.

Now the old year's over

we thank you, Lord Eternal,

for guarding us from danger

throughout its course.

Cast out our errors,

straighten our ways,

neglect all our sins

in the old year. Mercy!

1923, take the sweet gum

of our African prayers;

1923, with myrrh take our cries

to the One on High. Peace!

1923, I'm afraid it can't be denied

they're stealing your cattle on the plains;

but, Africans, to you I say:

will you go to the grave with nothing achieved?

Will the years pass you by, Greybeard of ours,

with nothing to show for them?

Let the old year be torched today,

let the new shake hands with us all.

Hanewu, 1923, trying year,

cross all the pools and leave

with the old year's pack on your back.

Peace, Elephant browsing homewards.

Those who once longed for you now must abandon you

to the sun and to the moon;

greetings, always true to your word.

Mercy, berry bush leaving with witches.

Smooth the way to heaven.

Why are the houses of Africa burning?

Poll Tax, Pass, and Special Permit.

Where can we live? Up in the clouds.

Laws outnumber those of Moses.

Why are the houses of Africans burning?

1923, go present your report,

plead our case in elegant terms. Peace!

A year's too fierce to take from behind.

It whips those who know into terror:

people succumb in its clutches,

a shade-screened leopard, dark beast eternal.